


Call It Fate Call It Karma

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Dancing, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Music, mention of murder, prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-23
Updated: 2013-09-23
Packaged: 2017-12-27 11:07:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/978106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He closes his eyes and pictures the ground on his mind, where he can step, where he cannot. He concentrates on the rhythms, the patterns, how the lines flow, intertwine and coexist. And then is when his brain travels to his feet, and he gracefully sways, and dances and forgets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Call It Fate Call It Karma

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fic written to fill a prompt by tumblr user ughbenedict. Even though she recommended getting inspired but a certain song, since I don't do rules, I got inspired by another called Call It Fate Call It Karma by The Strokes which inspires the title. 
> 
> Listen here > http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4LLIJkP301E
> 
> Link to prompt > http://ughbenedict.tumblr.com/post/58093966939/okay-so-since-the-previous-prompt-was-a-massive

Sherlock likes to dance. It soothes him, the swaying. And so, when he feels the nagging feeling of his brain rooting at the lack of activity, he picks up carefully a vinyl from his collection, the one that contains the song that fits his mood the best, and plays it. And he sways.

He closes his eyes and pictures the ground on his mind, where he can step, where he cannot. He concentrates on the rhythms, the patterns, how the lines flow, intertwine and coexist. And then is when his brain travels to his feet, and he gracefully sways, and dances and forgets.

__________________

John witnesses this once. And never tells Sherlock.

__________________

 

It’s been a tough case. The brutal murder of a 11-year old isn’t the kind of thing that leaves John indifferent, so he feels pretty edgy. He feels the anxiety he had so long forgotten since Sherlock came into his life, he feels it crawling inside him, dark and suffocating.

He is sat alone on his comfy armchair, the room lit only by the dim light of the sunset. His eyes are closed and he is trying to apply some anti-anxiety methods, but they don’t work as expected. His breathing is getting uneven and his hand has started trembling slightly.

Where is Sherlock?

It has been nearly a year since his last serious anxiety attack. It happened little before he met Sherlock, and the madman has kept him distracted and busy since then, and over all, happy. The times he has felt anxious during this year, Sherlock has appeared like a blessing, and told him to do something or explained him his latest adventure outside the comfortable cocoon that’s Baker Street, leaving the oppressing feeling on his chest completely forgotten.  

But this time it isn’t going as usual. And John is starting to feel like drowning. He needs to get Sherlock. When they came back home, the detective, coat still on, headed directly to his room, closing the door behind him. John respected his privacy, even though he preferred some company. So he sat down, and waited for Sherlock to come back, but he hasn’t.

John stares at his trembling hand now and let’s out a shaky breath. He needs Sherlock.

He stands up and feels his leg give up slightly and he can’t hate his life any more at this moment. He sighs and tries not to scream, because when he screams is when everything starts, like an action-reaction chain, the shaking, the too-fast breathing, the tears and the choking.

He makes his way to Sherlock’s room and knocks softly at the door. He waits for an answer and immediately regrets having knocked. What is he going to say? What is his excuse to disturb Sherlock’s privacy?

‘Come in.’ sounds the baritone voice and John pushes the door gently to reveal the detective stood up facing the window, hands in pockets.

John awkwardly walks into the room and closes the door behind him. Sherlock turns around and stares at his friend. John can tell he already knows how he is feeling and why he has come to him, he does feel exposed but that doesn’t bother him. Less explanation to be made.

John sits on the edge of the bed and closes his left hand in a fist to stop the shaking. After some seconds of silence Sherlock moves to the shelf and retrieves a record. He sets everything up and music starts playing.

It’s a really quiet song. The instruments are smooth and the melody is relaxing. It makes John think about late afternoons and reading in companionship silence. The singer’s voice, a man,  is high pitched but it fits perfectly with the melody. John concentrates On the music until his vision is blocked by Sherlock’s hand.

John looks at him confused and then he recalls the images of Sherlock dancing all by himself and he understands. He shifts his gaze to the exposed palm and hesitantly slides his own and the long graceful fingers close around his hand. Sherlock gently pulls him up and his free hand slides ever so carefully through the small of his back.

John doesn’t know where to look and he babbles. ‘I’m not sure-’

‘John.’ Sherlock’s voice echoes through their chests, low and soothing. ‘Don’t be obtuse. Just let it be.’ It’s more a murmur than anything and John nods and rests his hand on Sherlock’s bony shoulder.

When John realizes they are swaying slowly and relaxingly. Sherlock leads them gracefully around the room, always in tempo, following the rhythm in perfection. John feels awkward in comparison, but he follows Sherlock and tries to understand the way he perceives the music. He wants to be inside Sherlock’s mind. He wants to know if he feels it or he thinks it, if he puts his mind in such an emotional activity or if he just pours his heart instead.

He looks at Sherlock and his eyes are closed. This image soothes him instantly. He feels exhausted all of a sudden.The urge to rest his head on his chest is overwhelming but he hesitates. Actually, sod all the politically correct and the unwritten rules of male friendship. He rests his head on the detective’s chest and lets the music and the swaying bathe over him, and he feels free and relaxed and happy. No more choking, no more drowning

He sighs contently against the silk of Shelrock’s shirt and the detective squeezes his hand. And they gracefully sway, and dance and forget.


End file.
